Several years ago I met and befriended two elderly ladies who lived on my block. The first was "Betty", the second was "Amelia"(Not their true names). In this blog I'll tell you about my relationship with Betty. I'll tell you about Amelia next week.
Betty and I met in my driveway on the day of my yard sale. Before then, I didn't know who lived in that cute little white house with the large porch at the end of the block. She was about 70 years old, and must have stood around 5'10 before the bend in her spine reduced her to what might have been 5'6. Her shiny white hair was fine and wispy, beautifully contrasting her strong jaw line. Behind her thick grey square-rimmed glasses she had large blue eyes. Her long legs glided her to the table where I was standing. She smiled, so as not to reveal the smoke stained pearls behind her thin lips. The clear plastic tube that looped around her ears and rested with two small tubular openings at the base each nostril were attached to the oxygen tank on wheels, that she had in tow. She smiled. I smiled. We talked. We haggled...and viola! A friendship was born.
I began visiting Betty about three or four times a week. We ran errands together, or I did her grocery shopping when she wasn't feeling well. Sometimes I cleaned her house while she napped, and other times I just visited. One day she confessed that she didn't understand why I spent so much time with her, knowing that she couldn't reciprocate. Frankly, I hadn't given a single thought to reciprocation. I guess it boiled down to this; I saw a need, and filled it. (Knowing that my three year old enjoyed the visits didn't hurt either.) Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes and the oxygen tank. Oh, wait... let me add to that... Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes, the oxygen tank, AND the stage four lung cancer.
Our friendship lasted about a year. I hadn't noticed how rapidly Betty declined until the hospital bed was delivered. Day after day, I sat on the side of her bed holding her weak hand while we watched the news, or she'd tell me stories about her late husband and how they raised their children. When the hospice nurse, her children or grandchildren visited, I shortened my stay. Within about three weeks, the pain had become so severe that she was receiving increasingly heavy doses of morphine. All too soon my dear friend, Betty was gone.
The mass was held in a little chapel behind a large cathedral where Betty had attended for many years. When I saw the modest building, I didn't understand why the service was held in such a small place, but when the attendees arrived, I got it. The chapel's seating capacity was about one hundred, but only about 15 people showed up. How was it that this kind old lady's funeral service was so poorly attended? Where were her friends? I took notice of the white hair around me, and I understood why there were only 15 people there. Unlike me, Betty hadn't lived in California the majority of her life. Most of her friends lived on the East Coast. I knew her story, but hadn't considered it much, until now. When she and her family moved to California, she didn't work outside of her home. Her job was to tend to her children. Her husband's friends were her friends. After he died, his friends slowly stopped coming around. This was probably why her visitors consisted of her daughters, her grandchildren, the nuns, my daughter and me.
When Betty came to my yard sale she didn't look like a lonely woman in need of a friend, and I certainly wasn't looking to add more to-dos on my list. As a matter of fact, had it been left in my hands, Betty and I might not have met. I'd often walked passed her house, without thinking that there could be someone beyond those walls who was in need of my friendship. Had I been busy with another customer at the yard sale, I might have given her a quick friendly glance and thought nothing more about it. As it went, the event was orchestrated so that Betty and I could meet. I believe this was a divine appointment. How many Bettys live on your street? Work in your office? Go to your church? Are you a Betty? Are you staying home, locked up in your loneliness, or is there a divine appointment schedule for you?
Betty's death left a vacancy in my heart. Then I met Amelia.
Betty and I met in my driveway on the day of my yard sale. Before then, I didn't know who lived in that cute little white house with the large porch at the end of the block. She was about 70 years old, and must have stood around 5'10 before the bend in her spine reduced her to what might have been 5'6. Her shiny white hair was fine and wispy, beautifully contrasting her strong jaw line. Behind her thick grey square-rimmed glasses she had large blue eyes. Her long legs glided her to the table where I was standing. She smiled, so as not to reveal the smoke stained pearls behind her thin lips. The clear plastic tube that looped around her ears and rested with two small tubular openings at the base each nostril were attached to the oxygen tank on wheels, that she had in tow. She smiled. I smiled. We talked. We haggled...and viola! A friendship was born.
I began visiting Betty about three or four times a week. We ran errands together, or I did her grocery shopping when she wasn't feeling well. Sometimes I cleaned her house while she napped, and other times I just visited. One day she confessed that she didn't understand why I spent so much time with her, knowing that she couldn't reciprocate. Frankly, I hadn't given a single thought to reciprocation. I guess it boiled down to this; I saw a need, and filled it. (Knowing that my three year old enjoyed the visits didn't hurt either.) Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes and the oxygen tank. Oh, wait... let me add to that... Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes, the oxygen tank, AND the stage four lung cancer.
Our friendship lasted about a year. I hadn't noticed how rapidly Betty declined until the hospital bed was delivered. Day after day, I sat on the side of her bed holding her weak hand while we watched the news, or she'd tell me stories about her late husband and how they raised their children. When the hospice nurse, her children or grandchildren visited, I shortened my stay. Within about three weeks, the pain had become so severe that she was receiving increasingly heavy doses of morphine. All too soon my dear friend, Betty was gone.
The mass was held in a little chapel behind a large cathedral where Betty had attended for many years. When I saw the modest building, I didn't understand why the service was held in such a small place, but when the attendees arrived, I got it. The chapel's seating capacity was about one hundred, but only about 15 people showed up. How was it that this kind old lady's funeral service was so poorly attended? Where were her friends? I took notice of the white hair around me, and I understood why there were only 15 people there. Unlike me, Betty hadn't lived in California the majority of her life. Most of her friends lived on the East Coast. I knew her story, but hadn't considered it much, until now. When she and her family moved to California, she didn't work outside of her home. Her job was to tend to her children. Her husband's friends were her friends. After he died, his friends slowly stopped coming around. This was probably why her visitors consisted of her daughters, her grandchildren, the nuns, my daughter and me.
When Betty came to my yard sale she didn't look like a lonely woman in need of a friend, and I certainly wasn't looking to add more to-dos on my list. As a matter of fact, had it been left in my hands, Betty and I might not have met. I'd often walked passed her house, without thinking that there could be someone beyond those walls who was in need of my friendship. Had I been busy with another customer at the yard sale, I might have given her a quick friendly glance and thought nothing more about it. As it went, the event was orchestrated so that Betty and I could meet. I believe this was a divine appointment. How many Bettys live on your street? Work in your office? Go to your church? Are you a Betty? Are you staying home, locked up in your loneliness, or is there a divine appointment schedule for you?
Betty's death left a vacancy in my heart. Then I met Amelia.
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